Wæter
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: Arthur returns, but has no memory. At least he can still speak…Old English!


Wæter

**Summary**: Arthur returns, but has no memory. At least he can still speak…Old English?!

**Rating**: K+

**Disclaimer**: I am not fluent in Old English, but I have used various resources from the web in an attempt to construct grammar, declension rules, and using the correct etymological trees. Also, I don't own _Merlin_.

Wæter

"Close your eyes and listen," a voice whispered into the shell of his ear. Slim, pale arms slowly encircled his broad, muscled chest. "And trust me."

Blue eyes flew open, and then immediately slammed shut as bright morning sunlight pierced them. Groaning, he raised an arm to cover his face. Nearby, the sound of water trickling, and closer at hand, the sound of grass faintly whispering. Farther off, birds whistling, and trees creaking as a gentle breeze danced.

It seemed he was all alone.

But he was sure there was supposed to be someone with him, and it seemed that there had been only a moment before, if only he could remember who it was.

He lifted his arm and peeked out at the world again. This time his eyes adjusted to the light, and he was able to see the blue sky and the green grass, and the crystalline lake beside him. The man slowly sat up, and shivered, and belatedly realized that he was wet to the skin, and that he wore no clothes. Something felt not quite right about that, as though someone ought to have brought him something to wear already.

He remembered the voice: _treowian mec_, it had said. But how could he trust a voice which he did not know? And more pressingly, why was he naked and alone beside a lake? If there had been a voice, then there must be someone nearby. Perhaps he should get up and head towards…

The man hesitated, looking around. There didn't seem to be anywhere towards which to go, except the woods. In which direction did his home lay?

No matter; he would find someone and ask for directions. He would simply tell them that he was lost, that his name was…His name was…

Befuddled, he scratched his wet blond locks. "Ic hāte…" he said aloud, but his voice trailed off as his name was not forthcoming.

He was truly lost.

Feeling a bit helpless, he did manage to climb stiffly to his feet, wiping itchy blades of grass and clumps of dirt from his skin. The sun was warming him, at least, as was the movement. His head swiveled in all directions as he made up his mind about which direction he should take to find help.

He discarded almost immediately wending his way through the trees. He could die there without adequate shelter, and there was no telling how large the forest was. There were no boats on the lake, so that was right out unless he wanted to walk around it; but there was nothing he could see on the other side of it but green fields stretching towards more distant trees. He turned about and examined the sloping hill; at the very least he might have a better vantage point from there, and better able to make a decision for his course.

It was not steep, but the grass was slick with dew and his bare feet had no traction.  
By the time he reached the peak he was panting and sweating, and feeling distinctly uncomfortable. But, happily, he found just the thing he needed: a road.

With a sigh of relief, he set off. It wouldn't matter which direction, he thought, as a road is a means of traveling directly between two points, and as such he would reach one point eventually. And there he would find help. Perhaps someone would recognize him and remind him his name and where he lived; and he would be on his way and remember everything else shortly thereafter.

Loose pebbles quickly made sore feet, so he stepped off onto the green growing alongside. The sun, rising towards its peak as he trekked towards what he hoped was civilization, beat down on his shoulders, and he wished all the more for clothes. The landscape seemed to go on unchangingly.

To distract himself, he tried to revive his memory; his name, age, family, hobbies, anything that might spark something familiar. But it was as though he were a blank slate, aside from retaining the ability to speak and to walk, for which of course he was thankful. There was nothing he could take for granted when he knew nothing about himself or where he was or who he knew.

It struck him then that he could perhaps be in enemy territory—did he have enemies? Perhaps that was why he could remember nothing. Was it possible an enemy had taken his memory from him? He stopped in his tracks, suddenly unsure of whether he should continue: after all, if he were in enemy territory, would they not kill him when he came to ask for help? But what if he had no enemies, and his memory loss and nakedness was the result of some strange accident?

An even stranger thought: what if he never had any memories to begin with? What if he had never known anything at all, and could never know anything?

So caught up in these strange misgivings, he did not hear the grumbling approach of some heavy beast until it was nearly upon him. He turned, face slack with surprise.

A great behemoth of a _thing_, skin sleek and red as an apple, slithered to a stop beside him. The sclera of its rectangular eye slowly receded into its lower lid, and, most perplexingly of all, a _person _appeared. He could do nothing but gape.

The person, a young woman with dark curly hair framing her face, looked at him concerned. Her mouth moved, and he struggled to hear her over the angry beast. But try as he might, she might as well have been speaking gibberish.

He shook his head. "Ic þæt ne undergiete."

Her lips thinned in confusion. She ducked back into the beast and muddled around a bit; he leaned forward in an attempt to peer inside, curious as to how she survived within. Abruptly, the beast was silent, and its great side was heaved outward. The woman climbed out, perfectly unharmed. He blinked in surprise and backed away as she stepped away and slammed the beast's side shut again; a loud bang resounded, though the beast made no other noise, obediently silent as its mistress must have commanded.

With a waving gesture that he understood to mean stay, he waited and watched as the woman hurried to the back of the beast. With one hand she caused the beast to open upwards, much like a bed chest, while her other hand held the side of her head. He wondered whether she weren't injured after all, but before he could inquire, she was speaking gibberish again. Her head cocked to one side as she spoke, and her shoulder replaced her hand as she bent over the beast. She came out again, and leaving the beast's insides open to the crisp morning air, returned to his side, still speaking.

"Ic þæt ne undergiete," he repeated. Her brown eyes glanced at him, but she continued speaking. All the while she shook out a long, bright red blanket, and helped him to wrap it around himself. He felt the better for it almost immediately, but her foreign dialect left him frustrated. "Sprece þū Englisc?"

She looked at him again, reaching up to grasp a strange block he had not seen before, hidden by her hair as it had been. After another short burst of her language, she said, "English?"

"Englisc," he enunciated. "Englisc."

But no recognition appeared in her kind and apologetic eyes. Instead, she resumed speaking in her own language, and guided him gently towards the beast. He resisted, looking suspiciously at the thing. She relented almost immediately, and then guided him to sit on the grass. He gladly complied, having been walking most of the morning.

Although he was disappointed by the language barrier—he was no closer to finding out who he was or where he was—the sound of another voice was rather comforting. He drew the blanket, soft and warm, more tightly against his skin, and let his eyes drift closed as he listened to the one-sided conversation. It wasn't long before he heard another sound, and he opened his eyes, frowning. From down the way he saw another beast approaching: this one larger than the first, and white. He watched it nervously, wondering whether they ought to run: but the woman sitting beside him seemed unperturbed. Perhaps she had faith in her own beast's protecting her? But it seemed there would be no fight to be had. The second beast halted and went quiet, and from it came two more people. They, the men and the woman who had appeared to him, conversed over his head. He felt that he ought to stand and be a proper part of the talk, but he understood nothing. Their gesturing towards the second beast gave him the inkling that they wanted him to go inside it. He remained sitting, legs vibrating with tension. He felt that he would rather stay with the woman than go off with two strangers.

As he worked through his uncertainty, the woman knelt beside him again, speaking in a kindly tone. She hummed as he stared uncomprehendingly at her. Then she placed her hand over her chest and said, "Gwen."

Finally, something within his grasp. "Gwen," he repeated, extricating one arm to point at her.

She nodded, clearly pleased. She pointed at him expectantly.

He pointed towards himself, opened his mouth, but remembered then that he did not know his name. He gave her a desperate look, and she returned an expression that seemed to read: "It's all right, we'll help you."

The two newcomers, at her behest, knelt also and introduced themselves: "Leon," and "Percy."

The three foreigners held another short debate amongst themselves, Leon occasionally pointing to his own head, apparently explaining something. He decided to ask whether either of the men spoke his language.

"Hīerstu," he spoke up, drawing attention to himself. They turned to him. He first addressed Leon: "Sprece þū Englisc?" Getting no immediate recognition, he took a chance on Percy: "Sprece þū Englisc?" Still nothing.

Frowning, he turned his gaze to the ground, adjusting his blanket. He felt the three looking at him, studying him, heard them parroting his words. The sensation that he was lost was even stronger than before, and he longed to remember the owner of the voice that had spoken his own language, the one that had asked he trust it.

A hand touching his shoulder pulled him from his musing. It was Leon, tugging gently at the fabric and gesturing for him to stand. He did, swaying slightly. It was then he realized how hungry he was, how thirsty.

"Wæter?"

"Oh!" Gwen cried, then rambled in her language. But he saw the recognition there, and excitement built in his chest. She returned quickly to the beast, ducked in through the missing eye, and returned with a strange clear skin; inside it sloshed the cleanest water he had ever seen. "Water," she said.

"Wæter," he agreed, allowing her the atrocious mispronunciation.

As he struggled to drink from the container, she once more fiddled with the block she had held to her ear before. Percy took pity upon him and showed him how to twist the top to reveal the opening. Leon and Gwen huddled over the block, he suckled down sweet, cool water, relieving his parched throat and filling his empty belly.

"Ah," Gwen cried, pointing. "English, Englisc." She mumbled as she continued her ministrations. "Water, wæter." With a firm nod, she spoke to Leon, who responded with what seemed a bit of skepticism.

She brought the block to her ear and waited.

"Merlin?" she asked brightly, and he thought it must be a name. She seemed to have a conversation of her own then, with Percy and Leon standing by and listening patiently.

A sinking feeling accosted him then. Perhaps they were all quite insane. After all, they rode about in tamed beasts. He contemplated how he might escape. Running didn't seem like it would quite cut it, and he didn't dare presume he could fight them off.

Gwen approached him suddenly and held out the block towards him. He stepped backwards. Chastised by the reaction, she gave him an apologetic look and tapped it. "Merlin," she said, and more in her language.

To his shock, a voice responded—but not Leon's or Percy's. It was coming from the block.

Mouth agape, his wonder only deepened as it spoke to him in his own language: "Wes hāl. Ic hāte Merlin. Hwæt hātest þū?"

He stepped forward and let the blanket fall in favor of taking the block and speaking to it. "Sprece þū Englisc!" he exclaimed, shaking off the strangers' attempts to cover him again. "Wes hāl, woruldfréond, Merlin. Ic hāte…Ic nāt."

The block was silent for a moment. "Ic þū wāt."

"Hwæt?"

"Hātest þū Arthur."

"Arthur? Soþes?"

"Gea," Merlin laughed at the incredulity of Arthur's tone. "Gea, Arthur."

Arthur turned the block in his hands, thoroughly confused as to how it might know him. "Bist þu min freond?" he asked.

"Ic eom þin géowine," Merlin responded. "þu onwōce. Ic gegréte."

"Ic þæt ne undergiete," Arthur said.

He could practically hear Merlin's smile. "_Treowian mec,_" he said.

And Arthur did.

A/N:

This is the first fanfic I wrote and completed and for(effing)ever. Dear god. But I finally was able to sit down and write this amateurish piece.

Hope you got it! In case you didn't:

Arthur wakes with no memory, and Gwen, who happens to be driving by, finds him. She speaks modern English, so of course there is a language barrier. She calls for an ambulance for Arthur, who understands none of this, and paramedics Leon and Percival arrive. They debate whether they should bring him to hospital or to the police, but upon recognizing his request for water, Gwen realizes that it sounds like a form of English: specifically, Old English. She rings her friend Merlin, who happens to speak it, and lo and behold, they manage it over the phone.

GLOSARRY of OE phrases:

Bist þu min freond? Are you my friend?

Excuse me Hīerstu

Hwæt hātest þū? What's your name?

Ic eom þin géowine I am your friend of old

ic gegréte I come.

My name is ... Ic hāte ...

Ic nāt I don't know.

I don't understand Ic þæt ne undergiete

Ic þū wāt I know you

Do you speak Old English? Sprece þū Englisc?

þu onwōce you awoke

Wes hāl Hello (lit. Good health)

woruldfréond friend in this world


End file.
